


only takes a taste (when it's something special)

by ace_verity



Category: Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020), DC Extended Universe
Genre: Cooking, Domestic Fluff, F/F, Getting Together, not even a trace of angst, washing dishes together is romantic: change my mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:20:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25233043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ace_verity/pseuds/ace_verity
Summary: Helena doesn't know how to flirt — so she cooks instead.
Relationships: Helena Bertinelli/Dinah Lance
Comments: 30
Kudos: 156





	only takes a taste (when it's something special)

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this](https://ace-verity.tumblr.com/post/623484694762323968/i-love-you-i-want-us-both-to-eat-well-could-be.) anon ask.

“I’m getting sick of leftovers,” is the only explanation Helena gives when she makes the offer — Sunday dinner at her apartment, just Helena and Dinah and Renee, during the time they’d normally hold their weekly planning meeting in the training warehouse. 

“Yeah, I feel that,” Dinah answers, and then thinks — well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? Italians supposedly love to cook. “Need me to bring anything?”

“You don’t have to,” Helena says with a shrug. “Only if you want — wine, maybe?”

“You got it.” 

So Sunday afternoon finds the three of them in Helena’s new apartment, which is tidy but plain, crowded around an Ikea table. Dinah fills three wine glasses as Helena carefully plates servings of pasta — gnocchi with sausage ragu, she’d said, and Dinah’s mouth is watering just looking at it — from a huge pan. The walls of her apartment are bare, and there’s not a single houseplant or photograph in sight, but the kitchen, from what Dinah can see, is fully stocked — clearly, Helena is no amateur.

The first bite confirms it, too. The sauce is rich with flavor, fresh and complex, and the pasta itself is better than Dinah’s ever had. 

“Do you like it?” Helena asks, her fork still untouched beside her plate, and Dinah almost laughs at the absurdity of the question and of the nervousness clear on Helena’s face.

“It’s delicious, H — damn.” She takes a sip from her wineglass, testing the flavors — sure enough, by some miracle, she’d managed to bring a perfect match for the dish. “Better than any restaurant, that’s for sure.”

Renee hums in agreement, pointing her fork at Helena. “You’re a talented gal, Bertinelli, I’ll give you that.”

Helena straightens up at the praise, a little smile forming on her lips as she nods. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Like it?” Dinah shakes her head. “This is the best meal I’ve had in ages, H. You’re a pro.”

“Thank you,” Helena says, holding Dinah’s gaze for a moment before looking down at her plate and picking up her own fork. Dinah can’t help but notice the thoughtfulness in her expression as she takes her first bite, eyebrows furrowing like she’s cataloguing every flavor, and Dinah has to hide a grin by bringing her wineglass up for a second sip.

Somehow even the talk of fight strategies and crime networks doesn’t quite dampen the pleasantness of the evening — Helena seems to be in her element, the wine bringing a sweet pinkness to her face, and every compliment from Renee and Dinah makes her sit taller in her seat and gives a proud set to her jaw. 

“Damn, that was good,” Dinah sighs when the plates are cleared away. Renee had ducked out to take a call, so it’s just the two of them standing at the sink, Helena up to her elbows in soapy water and a drying cloth in Dinah’s hands. Their fingers brush for a moment when Helena passes Dinah a plate, leaving a swipe of soap bubbles on her skin. 

“Yeah?”

“Hell yeah,” Dinah confirms, and bumps Helena playfully with her hip. “You can cook for me any time, H.” 

“Alright,” Helena agrees solemnly, and for a moment their eyes meet — not for long, but long enough for Dinah to see the blend of fondness and sincerity in Helena’s expression. 

“Alright,” Dinah echoes, swiping the towel across the porcelain plate and tucking it back in the cabinet. When she turns back, Helena drops her gaze back to the sink, focusing hard on scrubbing a stubborn bit of pasta sauce. They work in comfortable silence for a moment, broken by the sound of running tap water and the echo of Renee’s voice, faint through the apartment door; the sun is setting outside, casting the room in golden light and long shadows.

“The recipe made a lot,” Helena says suddenly.

“Hm?”

“It made too much.” Helena rinses off her hands, shuts off the tap and flicks the excess water off her fingers into the sink. “There are leftovers. Do you want some?”

“Oh.” And come to think of it, there _had_ been far more food left in the pan than the three of them could have eaten, and definitely more than Helena can eat by herself. “Yeah, I’d love some. Thanks.”

So Helena fills up a tupperware with leftovers, and a second one for Renee as well. Warmth radiates out through the plastic, just short of being too intense to hold, and by the time Dinah’s back in her own apartment and tucking the container away in the fridge, it’s still lukewarm.

 _That’s tomorrow’s dinner taken care of,_ Dinah thinks. There’s a strange sort of loneliness in the air, now that they’ve gone their separate ways for the night, an emptiness not quite satisfied by any food as the evening becomes a memory, and Dinah flips through the channels on TV and wonders what Helena’s doing now that the dishes are away and the guests have left. 

_Thanks again for having us,_ she types, _it was nice to —_

To what? To see her, yes, but Dinah sees her practically every day. Not like that, though, not without the armor of weaponry and masks and combat boots.

 _It was nice,_ she finally settles on, and hits send before she can doubt herself further. 

Dinah thanks her again later in the week, once she’s finished the leftovers and cleaned the tupperware. It had been just as good the second day, filling and comforting — “Better than anything I would have made for myself,” Dinah adds, handing over the empty container, and Helena takes it with a look on her face that Dinah can’t quite read.

But she just says, “I’m glad you liked it,” and smiles a bit, cautiously, but happy.

It’s a week later when Dinah gets a text from Helena — that she’s been cooking, and made too much, and would Dinah like some?

 _Why not?_ Dinah figures, and answers back in the affirmative — which is how she ends up with enough pasta carbonara and caprese salad to last half the week, and she figures it’s a one-time thing, that Helena really had misjudged the recipe size and needed to give some away.

But then it keeps happening. Pretty soon Dinah has an assortment of tupperware containers stacked in her freezer, each filled with whatever fancy Italian dish Helena had made that week, and Helena’s excuse that she’d simply forgotten to cut down the recipe is getting flimsier by the day. If she can figure out the perfect seasoning blends and cooking times, then surely she can judge the proper amount of ingredients to use.

And coming from anyone else, Dinah would have confronted the issue by now. She doesn’t need handouts, she doesn’t need pity, she doesn’t _need_ to be taken care of — she can take care of herself, and she’s proven that time and time again. It reminds her of the days following her mother's funeral, when well-meaning but clueless strangers had shown up with casserole dishes, too much food for Dinah to eat even if grief hadn't already ruined her appetite.

But this is Helena, so it's different. There’s no condescension in her offers, no pity, just a sort of hopefulness, and every time Dinah accepts a new stack of carefully-packaged pasta or vegetables or roast rosemary chicken Helena looks pleased, like she’s proud of herself. 

It’s pretty cute, actually. And it’s not like it’s a hardship for Dinah to accept the food, since everything Helena makes is absolutely delicious. 

“What’s this about, H?” 

"Hm?”

“This.” Dinah nods to the container of linguini Helena had given her as soon as she entered their warehouse headquarters. “You think I can’t cook for myself or something?”

“Of course not.” Helena looks almost affronted. “I know you can.”

“Alright, so — you could just keep this for yourself, then you wouldn’t have to cook so much. Why not do that?” 

Helena’s brow furrows, and Dinah adds, “Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I’m complaining, I’m just curious.”

And Helena relaxes at that. “I guess…” She shrugs. “I just like to share.”

“Right,” Dinah says. “Well, thanks.”

Helena nods and smiles as usual, and then she disappears to go train, and when Renee catches sight of the latest stack of tupperware containers she raises her eyebrows.

“Jesus, she’s still doing this?”

“She told me it’s ‘cause she likes to share,” Dinah answers.

“Yeah, that’s not it.” Renee pins Dinah with a look. “Come on, Lance, what do you think she’s doing here? You see her cooking for me? Or Quinn?”

Apart from that first time, and a dinner they’d had with Cass and Harley a month ago — no, Dinah realizes, it’s only been her on the receiving end of Helena’s cooking.

“Exactly.” Renee nods knowingly. “You get it now? Helena gets all worked up just lookin’ at you — she can’t flirt, so this must seem like the next best thing. And you’re no better,” Renee adds, narrowing her eyes, “I’m stuck with you idiots dancing around each other instead of, I dunno, _talking it out._ Like normal people do. And you wonder why I drink.”

Dinah’s first reaction is to deny it, but Renee huffs and walks away before she can, and Dinah tries to put it out of her mind on instinct — they’ve got a good thing going, with this team, and it’s already more than Dinah had thought she’d ever be ready for, with the trust and the easy companionship, and adding romance to the mix would surely complicate matters.

But she can’t stop thinking about it. Her freezer is practically overflowing at this point, thanks to Helena, and every time Dinah pulls out one of the tupperwares for dinner, every bite brings to mind the image of Helena frowning in concentration over a stove, carefully doling out portions into plastic containers, handing them over with a tentative smile, blushing when Dinah compliments her work. 

She starts to notice other things as well — the way Helena looks at her, the pride in her expression whenever Dinah laughs at one of her rare jokes, the softness of her brown eyes that contrasts so sharply against her ferocity in a fight, the lean curve of her muscles and the way she shoves her hair back from her face so that it falls in a tangle of messy waves. 

And one morning Dinah wakes up with a blisteringly sore throat and a pounding headache, sore all over, and this time when Helena’s usual text comes through, Dinah replies, _gonna pass — I think I have the flu._

She dozes off on the couch before Helena can answer, and wakes in late afternoon to a soft knock on her apartment door.

 _Who the hell —_ she has time to wonder, and then she pulls the door open, squinting against the harsh lights in the hall, and sees Helena standing there.

“Oh. You look awful,” Helena says bluntly, then winces. “Sorry, I meant —”

“No, you’re right.” Her voice is rough, every word hurting like she’s swallowed broken glass. “Feel awful, too. C’mon in.”

Dinah doesn’t bother apologizing for the mess of blankets on the couch and tissues on the coffee table, and Helena doesn’t comment.

“What’s up, H? You worried about me?”

“Um. Yes, actually.” Helena frowns at her, studying Dinah’s face. “And I made some —”

“I don’t know, H, I don’t have much of an appetite —”

“Oh.” Helena’s face falls, just a bit, but she holds up the container — a big one, this time. “It’s chicken soup. Since you’re not feeling well.”

“You —” There’s an ache in her throat that has nothing to do with being sick, and suddenly Dinah finds herself blinking back tears. “You made me soup?”

“It’s okay if you don’t want it,” Helena assures her, looking nervous, “but it’s a good recipe, and it might help.”

“Thank you,” Dinah says, the words coming out softer than she’d intended, and Helena holds her gaze and nods, then clears her throat.

“Um, I can get — I didn’t bring bowls,” she says apologetically, and despite feeling like she’s been run over by a truck, Dinah almost laughs. 

“Cabinet by the sink, spoons are in the drawer below,” she directs, then sinks back onto the couch with a sigh. A moment later Helena returns, a bowl in each hand, and as soon as the savory scent of broth reaches her, Dinah remembers that she hasn’t eaten anything all day, and suddenly she’s ravenous. 

It tastes almost exactly like the chicken soup her mother would make on dreary days like this, freezing to save for whenever either of them caught a cold, and every bite seems to shore up her strength a little bit more. 

“God, this is good,” she sighs after the bowl is halfway gone. “Feeling better already.”

“I’m glad,” Helena tells her, utterly sincere, and when they’ve finished she takes their bowls to wash in the sink and comes back with a fresh, steaming mug of tea, which she hands to Dinah. The warmth of it against her palms is nothing compared to the warmth that fills her when Helena agrees to stay for a little bit longer, without a moment’s hesitation at Dinah’s suggestion. 

Maybe it’s her drowsiness, or maybe she’s got a touch of a fever, but Dinah looks at Helena and thinks, _God, I love this woman_ — and it feels so right that she almost says it out loud.

“You okay?”

“Hm?” 

“You looked a little — I don’t know.” Helena presses her lips together and frowns. “Can I get you anything?”

“I’m alright,” Dinah says — it’s not the time for grand confessions, but she’s content with this moment as it is.

“If you need anything…” _I’m here,_ Helena doesn’t finish, but she doesn’t need to — Dinah hears it anyway. 

Once the chicken soup is gone and Dinah’s fully recovered, Helena texts one afternoon to let Dinah know that if Dinah wants, she has cooking to spare, and when Dinah agrees — although it’s gotten out of hand, now that she can barely shut her freezer — Helena offers to bring it over, and she knocks on Dinah’s door holding — 

“A lasagna?” Dinah stares in disbelief. “An entire lasagna?”

“It freezes really well,” Helena says, hefting the baking tray in her arms and giving Dinah a proud grin. 

“That’s not — Helena. This is a little bit much, don’t you think?”

“I mean, it is kind of big,” Helena concedes, frowning thoughtfully at the dish. “But it’ll last a long time.”

“No, I — look.” Dinah crosses over to the fridge and opens the freezer door, revealing the stacks of frozen Italian foods within. “It’s too much, H, I can’t keep accepting all this food.”

“Okay,” Helena says. She’s still holding the lasagna, and she looks crestfallen. “I can — I’ll stop, then.”

“How about this,” Dinah suggests, hit by a momentary stroke of genius. “Next time, can you teach me?”

“I’d like that,” Helena says after a moment’s pause. “That would be — that would be nice.”

“See? Problem solved.”

And a week later she's standing in Helena's kitchen as Helena guides her through making gnocchi and pesto. Dinah can't quite keep her eyes off Helena, because she moves through the kitchen with an ease and deftness that’s utterly captivating, and even though she’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt Dinah can make out the lines of her muscles as Helena kneads the dough with quick, strong movements.

“There,” Helena finally declares, raking a hand through her hair and leaving behind a streak of white flour that stands out comically against her dark curls. 

“Now what?”

“Now…” Helena reaches into a drawer and produces two forks. “We shape them.” She hands one fork to Dinah, then pinches off a bit of dough and rolls it between her fingers before pressing it against the tines of the fork, all in one fluid motion. “See?”

So Dinah gives it a try. “Like this?” The end product is a little wonky, not quite like Helena’s, but pretty good for a first try, Dinah thinks.

“Yeah, that’s perfect.” 

They fall into an easy rhythm, working in companionable quiet, and Dinah sneaks a sideways glance from time to time, noting the skilled movements of Helena’s hands and the intense concentration on her face. Soon muscle memory takes over: reach for a bit of dough, roll it, press it, repeat, and then Dinah reaches at the same time Helena does and their hands brush. 

“Sorry,” Helena murmurs, but then it happens again, and on the third time Dinah doesn’t draw back, but rather lets her hand rest over Helena’s. Underneath the gritty residue of flour and dough, her skin is soft and warm, and Dinah feels Helena's gaze on her and lifts her eyes to meet it. 

“You, um.” Helena nods at her. “You’ve got a bit of…”

“Hm?” Dinah pulls her hand away with reluctance to brush away what must be a smudge of flour. “Good?”

“No, it’s right — here.” And Helena swallows and brings her hand up to Dinah’s face, brushing her thumb against the skin below her cheekbone, leaving behind a tingling warmth. “There. Better.”

For a moment, she doesn’t draw away, and it seems like they’re both holding their breath — then just as Helena starts to lift her hand away, Dinah catches it before she can, brings her other hand up to Helena’s face and figures that now is as good a time as any —

She leans up and kisses Helena, and then Helena’s hands come to rest on her waist after a moment and Dinah can feel Helena smiling. 

_Finally,_ Dinah thinks, even though they’ve both got floury handprints on their clothes and the gnocchi dough is sitting forgotten on the counter — but dinner can wait, she thinks, because Helena’s breathless and blushing and grinning down at her like a kid at Christmas — dinner can wait, because the two of them have already waited long enough.

“You know, I’m running out of new recipes,” Helena says one day with a frown, stirring a pan of vegetables on the stove. It’s snowing gently outside, a typical January day in Gotham, and there are still boxes stacked in the corner waiting to be unpacked — but it’s warm and cozy in their new apartment.

“I could always dig out my mom’s old recipe box,” Dinah suggests from her perch on the counter, and Helena raises her eyebrows.

“Yeah? That would be nice, you could teach me some.” Helena taps the wooden spoon against the rim of the pan and rests it on the counter. “You’re probably sick of pasta anyway.”

“Nah,” Dinah replies, then grins and adds nonchalantly, “I could eat Italian all day.”

“Oh, good,” Helena says absently, frowning at the recipe card, and then blinks and looks up, a blush already rising over the collar of her turtleneck shirt. “You mean — oh. Okay, yeah.”

“Yeah?” Dinah uncrosses her legs, and Helena steps up to stand between her knees as Dinah drapes her arms over Helena’s shoulders and leans down to kiss her. 

Helena hums against her mouth and runs her hands down Dinah’s sides, bringing them forward to fumble with the button of her pants and then stops. 

“Maybe not in the kitchen,” she explains, her eyes dark and gleaming, so Dinah hooks her ankles together behind Helena’s legs and lets Helena lift her right off the counter and carry her the short distance to their bedroom. 

It’s not until later, much later, that Helena lifts her head from the pillow next to Dinah’s and frowns, asking, “Do you smell something burning?”

“Oh my god,” Dinah realizes, at the exact moment that Helena’s eyes widen and she says, “I forgot the stove.”

In the end, they order takeout and leave the pan and its charred contents in the sink, and even though it ended up being a bit of a waste of ingredients and time — well, Dinah can’t bring herself to mind, and she’s pretty confident that Helena doesn’t either.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Dinah teases, smiling at Helena’s tousled bedhead and the way she stifles a yawn and squints a bit against the morning light spilling through the window. “You hungry?”

“Mm-hm.” Helena leans against the counter, spooning sugar into her coffee. “Toast?”

“You got it, babe.” 

It’s nothing fancy — raspberry jam on toasted wheat bread for both of them — but it’s perfectly satisfying nonetheless. Or maybe it’s the company that makes it satisfying, Dinah muses — toast, or takeout, or fancy Italian fare, it doesn’t matter, really.

As long as she’s sharing it with Helena, she couldn’t be happier.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! i'd love to hear what you think!


End file.
